


Cycloptic Smile

by zysygy



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zysygy/pseuds/zysygy
Summary: "An eerie painting of a one-eyed woman. It's said it was originally drawn with two. It's somewhat famous for a case in which it was stolen from a museum, but then returned the next day."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Cycloptic Smile

The glass swung up with a creak, halting gloved fingers, which then swung it up the rest of the way. Kneeling on the grass, he slid one leg in and then another, twisting sideways and shoving himself through the narrow rectangle to drop down on the tiled floor below.

There was a moment of pause before he moved towards the door. Hopefully, that wouldn’t creak too, but it likely didn’t matter anyway. The guard was in a different wing. It was just his head messing with him, picturing all the ways this could go wrong. It seemed too easy, all of it.

There was no alarm on the window, only bars, which he’d taken off without a problem. Then there was the fact that there was only one security guard, who didn’t seem all that interested in keeping things secure. The man was always dozing off on his shift. Hopefully, tonight wouldn’t be an exception.

Now that he was in, he just had to get out...after he nabbed what he was after. The door handle was cold in his sweaty grip.

It had to be something cool that he could hang up in his place. Some of this stuff might be worth something, but he wouldn’t be able to get it off his hands that easily, not with his sparse business connections. He was still very much a rookie, which was why a place like this was perfect. The last thing he was ready for was a high-profile heist.

The door opened, and along with it came a rush of warm, stale air. Ugh. The place smelled weird and moldy...just like the people who liked to come here, probably. He wasn’t anything like those art snobs. He just wanted a souvenir.

He took slow steps, scanning the hall as he did. After a bit of walking, the tiles were replaced by carpet. He was in the right place. There along the walls were the paintings. They were each lit up with lights on either side.

There was a landscape painting, and then some more, the ocean, a lighthouse, blah, blah. Ah, portraits. They were just as boring as the landscapes. He stopped abruptly. But not this one. He’d had his eye on it...or it had its eye on him.

The painting showed a smiling woman. Ordinarily, that subject would be normal enough, but in this case her mouth was nearly as wide as her face, and her eye—yes, only one, almost covered her whole forehead.

Without a second thought, he lifted the picture off the wall and strode out of the room. He half-expected alarms to start ringing, even though he’d already taken care of that beforehand, but the only sound was his feet moving on the floor and his heart thumping in his ears.

He sat back on the couch. Ha. He’d done it. He poured himself a drink and looked at the painting propped up on the table.

“A toast!” he declared. “To me! And to the artist, whoever you are.” He raised his glass. “You’ve got a wild imagination.”

He’d never felt so triumphant, but his energy soon died down along with the lights, as he turned them off one by one and then collapsed on the couch, tossing an arm over his eyes and crossing his legs for a well-deserved rest.

His eyes twitched open, and he sat up groggily. It seemed some hours had passed, but his sleep was cut short when he started to shiver. The room was chilly, and he didn’t have a blanket. He stood, turned on a light, and went to find one.

No, they weren’t on that side of the room. He walked to the other. Not there either. Where did he put them? He started walking again, then suddenly stopped. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the table where the painting sat. “Are you going to help look, or are you just going to stare at me?” The painting stared. Well, that was that.

Finding a blanket in one corner of the room, he took it and tossed it on the couch. Just as he was turning off the light, he paused.

He was standing at the other end of the room now, but the painting still looked like it was staring at him. Wasn’t it supposed to be looking straight ahead? Huh. Maybe that was why some people preferred landscapes.

He turned off the light. Then on again. Off. On. Off.

He walked over and picked up the painting, squinting at it in the dark. He could swear its eye looked like it did something whenever the light went off. Did it...close? Was it closed now?

He brought it to the window, where he could see better in the pale early morning light. The eye was wide open, its small pupil focused on him.

He set it back down on the table and sat on the couch. He squinted. The eye seemed to squint back.

His body tensed a little. No way.

Lights on. His eyes were open for as long as he could handle, which was probably not even a minute before he blinked and rubbed at them. He proceeded to stare more. The painting’s eye had closed before. He just had to catch it in the act.

A lot of sitting and staring ensued, and at some point he decided he couldn’t even trust his own eyes in the low light, so he found a flashlight and pointed it at the painting.

The pupil shrank.

The light hit the floor with a clatter.

As he grabbed the painting, shoved it into a bag, and zipped it up, the last he saw of it was one glowering eye.


End file.
